Give and Take
by Shadowswhisper1013
Summary: "You think she was sick. You think she had been ever since she graduated from high school, anyway. You think the real world broke her just like it does so many people. But you were determined not to let the real world kill her." -Quinn's thoughts and observations of Santana and their relationship.


_***Warning: Triggers of all types. Very high T**_

_The fact that the writers had Santana say "I'm not worth it" broke my fucking heart. And since Santana might not get to redeem herself (because who knows wtf is going on right now? I sure as hell don't) I guess I needed some kind of closure, even if I have to write it myself. So I gave birth to this. This is not fluffy, though, it might make you smile (in a sad way)._

You two always went through spells, though you're not positive if she noticed. You're sure she did now that you think back on it.

There were good periods, and bad periods, and periods so fucking horrible you wanted to leave her. But you didn't because you two need each other. You were made for each other and all her baggage and shit came with being together.

If you hadn't married her, you never would have known how insecure she was. You never would have known just how sweet and considerate she could be. You never would have known how broken she actually was_._

At first, you felt bad that you were proud that you managed to find the one human being on earth who went through more shit than you and who needed _you_ to fill them up when they were low on gas.

But the thing is, she was freaking amazing. Not perfect, but pretty damn close and that was good enough for you. And your relationship isn't perfect and _not_ pretty damn close, but a relationship that takes no effort, won't turn out to be a good relationship.

She always had a mask on, one that she even tried to hold up around you but you could see through it. And you think she knew that. No- you know she knew that.

You were there when she had break downs and terrifyingly close calls with death. You were there and you held her as she bled. You shouted at her to get down from the ledge. You rode in the back of the ambulance with her on many occasions. You've stopped her from speeding the wrong way down a one way street all while keeping her sane on the phone. You shoved your fingers down her throat so she would throw up the pills before they digested. You have forced food and water past her trembling, pale, dry, cracked lips urging her to "swallow, please, beautiful." You pulled the covers up over her angelic, bony, body as she slept, praying that she wouldn't die in her sleep.

Your mother says it's not fair to you to put up with her shit and even her mother gives you a sympathetic look. But she puts up with your shit as well though you try really hard not to have shit. You'll do anything to make her happy. To make sure she's okay.

Plus, to you, she was completely worth it.

You think she was sick. You think she had been ever since she graduated from high school, anyway. You think the real world broke her just like it does so many people. But you were determined not to let the real world kill her.

But you kind of loved it when she came to you broken, trembling, and begging for your touch- for you. You loved it when she gave herself to you completely. The way she quivered at night and sought you for comfort.

Her success hit faster than either of you were prepared for. It was something you know she'd been working towards since high school. It was something you know she deserved.

People fell in love with her. People you had never, and probably would never meet. She was in the spotlight and, consequently, so were you. But you didn't complain often because you were so fucking happy _for _her. And you thought she would learn to love herself the way you did. You prayed she would fall in love with herself the way all the random strangers did.

The spotlight became harder to handle as her eyes got sadder- darker- hollower. You were the only one she would talk to sometimes. You were the only one she trusted.

Your friends said it was stupid for you to put up with her. But, you deal with people you love. And she needs you. And you love her. So you begrudgingly put up with all her problems following her into the spotlight. And you tried to fix it.

Her fame and success haunted you sometimes. But honestly, you didn't really mind. As long as she was a little happier than before.

As long as she started believing in herself.

And you were happy to be cheering her on.

When she wanted a baby, you guys had one. And she was genuinely happy during the pregnancy. She glowed, smiled, laughed. Enough to make up for all the times she didn't. You loved the joy she oozed. You adored her confidence and the way her eyes crinkled when she let out hearty, breathless laugh. The way she said "I fucking love you." You were so pleased she was filling up again and that you didn't have to drain yourself every day in order to fill her half way. You fell in love with her all over again.

She gave birth to your daughter on a stormy day. You two named her Anala Storm- Fiery Storm. And she looked just like her mama. Acted like her too.

You made it your life's goal to never let your daughter get to the place of deterioration she has, though.

You noticed she was quite hollow after she gave birth. Post-Partum Depression is your guess, but you were no psychologist and you couldn't convince her to go to one.

She stopped dressing the way she did (completely this time, though). You would come home and see her in oversized Yale hoodies and boxers that hung a little too much off of her hips.

You had to hide the knives so you wouldn't come home to find her staring into space, clutching one so tightly that her fingers paled.

She was already shattered, but it seemed like she was shattering more. So you lived for the days she was in a good mood.

You held her every night, tight, to your body like she was the baby in your family. You held her like you were keeping her soul locked up in her body so she would not die in your arms.

And if she died in your arms, it would literally be the worst thing you could possibly think of. But not worse than not being the last one she sees before she dies (because you knew it was coming. You just didn't know when). You want to breathe in her last breath because when you said the wedding vows, you meant them. And actually, as you thought about it, it became more and more apparent you wanted her to die in your arms.

Your sister said that your relationship with her is not healthy and, your sister _is_ a psychologist. Your sister said you need to just divorce her and take Anala or she will. But your sister didn't get it.

You're pretty sure you need her as much as she needs you.

And you said _till death do us part_, and even then, you know she'll always be with you.

Your sister asked you, what had to die before you can part? And you couldn't really answer that without breaking your own heart.

She really _did_ love you, though, because when you told her about your conversation with your sister, she cried.

"I- No. Please don't leave me. Don't take my baby away from me. I love you both more than death itself. You two are the only reasons I'm… I- Baby please. I'll do better. I'll try, anyway."

And it broke your heart. You told your sister what she said and your sister simply gave you a look, muttering something about 'worse than I thought' and 'dependent. Not equals.'

You stopped yourself whenever you found yourself taking your sister's advice into consideration.

"Take care of Mama," Anala said to you before she went off to a summer long camp. "I know she gets sadder when I'm not here so, don't let her get too sad. 'Cause, she loves you as much as she loves me, she just knows you'll be okay without her and she doesn't know if I will. Keep her safe."

The fact that your twelve year old daughter understood something that even you didn't (on some days) made you smile even though it hurt.

"Don't worry baby," you said, kissing her. "I'll keep Mama here."

You found her diary one day when she was on set and Anala was at school.

You read about all the things she wants to do, all the things she wants to say, everything she thinks about you, about Anala, about life, and it always ends with _…I'm not worth it._

You read how she wished she was an alcoholic or a drug addict because then she could really be cured.

And _you_ cried. For the first time in years. You've always had to be so strong for her, you kept your own emotions locked up- not realizing that she was doing the same.

She really was a great actress because it seemed like she fooled even _you _in the matter that she was even more distraught than she let on_._

No, your relationship wasn't perfect. Nothing really was. It seemed as if everything was falling apart.

She found you crying and going through her diary, but she didn't say a single word and that should have scared you more than it did.

And that night, she held you. It made you feel loved, really, truly, and completely loved that she would immediately shove her shit to the side so she could help you deal with yours. And maybe, you're using pronouns too lightly. Because, no problem is individual since you were married.

You practically had a panic attack when you came home and saw boxes and suitcases full of her stuff everywhere. She just smiled sadly at you. "Since you say I'm worth it," she said, "I'm going to extensive therapy. I'm gonna' be a better wife to you because I love you. I'm going to be happy again so 'Nala will have another good role model."

You wanted to say that she _is_ worth it, but you knew she wouldn't hear you right then. Well, she'd hear it, but she wouldn't listen.

All while she was at rehab, rumors swirled about another star gone crazy. You resisted the urge to say that she's _been_ fucked up. Ever since she moved to New York when she was eighteen, but that would have brought up more rumors and you weren't sure you could handle it without her there.

She called and seemed happier at rehab than she ever was with you. You told herself it was because she was getting better and berated yourself every time you got the thought that it was your fault she was like that- broken, that is.

You and Anala greeted her at the airport when she got back from rehab, happily. You were _so_ glad to see her in one piece. And being a single parent was extremely _fucking_ hard.

You fell into her arms that seemed stronger than they had since she cheered and were comforted by the kisses her plump lips dropped onto your face.

Her eyes glimmered with tears and your tears had already fallen.

After that, she was better. You constantly worried she was just acting, but deep down you knew she wasn't. You saw it in her eyes. You saw the effort. But you also saw the not-quite-happy-happiness.

You wanted to go back in time and kill everyone who ever said anything to make the amazing woman you were married to doubt herself so much to the point of depression. To the point where she started to believe it. If someone told you that she was going to be like this as an adult, you never would have believed them.

You wanted so badly for her to be happy and now, you realize that your happiness was directly linked to hers.

"Tell Mama I'll be okay," Anala whispered to you, one week before your conversation. "If- if she wants to go," your daughter smiled at you. You hugged Anala tightly to your body and let her cry into your dress. And you realize your daughter had been preparing to mourn for years just like you, but neither of you actually wanted to. You both thought she'd get better. But you both loved her enough not to keep her here. And you understood that it had _nothing _to do with Anala, with you, with the life you and she created together. You only hoped Anala would.

The conversation you had been preparing for the whole time you two were married finally came, and you were shockingly unprepared. You felt the tugging in your whole body- from your stomach, to your heart, to your head, to your toes, to your very soul.

"It's time," she said. You didn't ask what that meant. You knew. And you weren't about to make her change her mind. "Tell 'Nala that I love her and that I'm not dying because of her," she said. "And I'm not dying because of you because, God, Q, I _fucking_ _love you so much._ I literally don't know how to express it. I _can't_ express it. I feel like I've failed you. And I'm sorry you had to put up with me, Mrs. Lucy Quinn Lopez-Fabray," she said. You shook your head.

"Oh, baby. You're so worth it. I want you to know that," you said. It wouldn't have been right for her to go without hearing it one last time. "I love you too. So much."

And she is worth it. She's worth every good thing she's gotten. She's worth you trying to help her. She's worth you seeing it through till the end.

She smiled at you and you held her in your arms like you had millions of times before, but, unlike the others you weren't begging her to stay alive. You weren't holding her captive here for your own selfish purposes. You were slowly letting go and this time, it was you trembling.

You realize it took the same amount of energy to hold onto her as it did to let her go.

"You're beautiful," you whispered. She smiled a little, chuckling.

"Thank you. It was one hell of a ride."

"Oh, you're telling me!" You choke back a sob. She pecks your lips whispering,

"Don't cry. I'll always be with you."

"Santana Marie Lopez- Fabray." You said, stealing one last look into vast brown depths.

"Lopez- Fabray. I like the way that sounds." She hummed and closed her eyes and you ran your fingers over her cheeks, through her hair and just waited.

"Have fun in heaven, my love."

She died in your arms just like you wanted her to. You breathed in her last breath. It was peaceful. She wasn't in pain. You weren't in pain. And she didn't kill herself. The world didn't kill her. She just went and she was finally _okay _with herself and knew she was worth it and that's more than what you could have asked.

Anala's hand grips yours as you two walk by her coffin. She looks so beautiful and whole and you have a hard time believing she was ever a broken human. You can't believe she was ever _sad_ or doubted herself.

Anala cries silently, like you, and you both stand there for a while, looking at her.

She didn't fail you.

You didn't fail her.

Neither of you failed fourteen year old Anala who looks exactly like Santana. So much you pray it won't haunt you.

"I love you _mama,"_ Anala says, kissing her mother's corpse. You watch your baby and more tears spill over, even though you smile.

Someone says, "She was too young to go. Only 42."

And you look up because you swear you hear her laughter. "It's much happier here, but I'm waiting for you, Quinn. Take your time, though. Don't want you dying too soon."

You swallow your tears down, bending down to kiss her corpse, and smile because she's happy now and that's all you've ever wanted. "Okay, Santana."

_I guess, this is what the writers will do to Santana if glee went on forever._

_And I'd just like to say, Santana is one of the most deserving characters on the show and I'm not just saying this because I adore her (which I do). I don't particularly like Rachel's character but I was so fucking proud of her accomplishments… I digress. If you want to talk or hear the rest of my opinions, PM me._

_Just know in my mind, Santana is more famous than everybody ('Cept maybe Mercedes) and has a beautiful life and four kids with Quinn. More about that story later… ;)_


End file.
